His brazilian girlfriend Sofia

The message arrived unexpectedly at 9:40 on a Thursday.

"Hej, it's Sofia. Magnus is out again. Do you play pool? Come over; I'm bored. The table is lonely."

Sofia. Two months. That's how long she'd been in the picture—Magnus's new girlfriend, the one he'd brought back from a work trip, the one he'd installed in his life like a piece of furniture he was very proud of. Two months, and already he'd stopped coming home. She came from Brazil, from Recife. She'd been in Sweden long enough to speak perfect, mocking Swedish with a soft tropical drag on the vowels. Magnus was Swedish too, which mattered, because Magnus acted like the whole thing was a summer he was still in the middle of. Thursday nights. Fridays. Saturdays. Some friend's birthday, some bar opening, some "after work" that ended at three in the morning. Always with her left behind.

He wasn't cheating, probably. He was just out. Thirty-eight years old, behaving like he was twenty-two, single again. Sofia was being quietly left in a beautiful house with nothing to do.

She opened the door before I rang.

Twenty-two years old, and it showed everywhere. Sun-baked. Three months of Swedish summer had turned her a deep gold from the collarbones down, a tan line running pale under the edges of her clothes. Freckles scattered across her shoulders and the tops of her feet. Hair down—long, dark brown, heavy, and salt-stiff at the ends from the lake, curling like she'd raked her fingers through it a hundred times. A sheer linen blouse, unbuttoned to the sternum, trying to keep her breasts secured, a tiny white string bikini top under it doing almost nothing. Denim shorts cut high. A black tie knotted loose at her throat, absurd in the heat, stolen from Magnus's closet. Big silver earrings swinging when she moved.

She smelled of coconut sunscreen, salt, and warm skin, and under it all a sharp jasmine perfume that hit me in the chest from a meter away.

She held the cue like a walking stick.

"You came," she said. "Good. He's at some place in Gamla Stan. He'll be home at three, maybe four."

"Does he know I'm here?"

She stepped back to let me in. The smile was slow, entirely unhurried.

"He didn't ask."

The house was too warm—every window open, the white night hanging outside, no wind at all. The pool table was already lit, the lamp low over the green, the rest of the room dark. Two glasses. A bottle of red already breathing. She poured without asking.

"Nine-ball," she said. "Or do you want to be beaten at something easier?"

...

The first game was a seduction disguised as playing pool.

She was good. Better than good—she moved around that table like she'd grown up in bars and made sure I noticed how she moved. Lining up a shot, she went down low, chin almost to the cue, back arched, chest flat on the felt, looking up at me sideways with the cue feathering between her fingers. The shorts rode up. The bikini top gaped. She didn't fix either.

"See it?" she said. "Right there. In the corner."

"I see it."

"You're looking at my hand."

"I'm looking at the shot."

She laughed, low, missed anyway, and didn't seem bothered.

"It's so warm in here," she said, straightening. "Sweden in July. Everyone thinks we are ice people. Then this." She fanned herself with the cue. "You're warm too. Look at you."

She came around the table and stood much too close, reaching past me for the chalk. Her forearm brushed my chest and stayed there a beat too long. She chalked the cue slowly, watching me, blue powder dusting her fingertips.

"You're not gone, though," she said. "You came when I called. One message."

"You said you were bored."

"I said the table was lonely. The table doesn't answer the phone." She blew the chalk off the tip, then off her fingers, the little blue cloud hanging between us. "It's a very good table. Big. Strong. You can put a lot on it."

"Yeah?"

"Mm." She turned away hips-first and walked back to the other end. "Your shot."

I broke. Two balls dropped. She didn't care.

She talked while she racked. "You know what he does? Monday, football. Tuesday, rest—from what? He rests from working, like a hero. Wednesday, after work. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday, he sleeps, then he wants a blowjob because he's rested. "She slid the triangle away. "Two months. In Brazil we would have had a fight by now. A big one. Somebody throws a shoe."

"So, fight with him."

She drank. "He doesn't listen. He hej, hej's me. You know? Hej hej, Sofia, I'm going now." She did his voice, flat, cheerful, and stupid. "He is a good man. He is just—" a small gesture, palm up, presenting an empty plate—"gone."

She racked for me, then didn't move away. Stood behind me while I lined up, close enough that I felt the heat of her through the linen. Her bare foot slid up the back of my calf and down again, slow, deliberate.

"You're standing wrong," she said.

"I'm standing fine."

"You are." Her hand landed flat between my shoulder blades, slid to my hip, and adjusted it a centimeter. Her thumb stayed, rubbing a small circle through my shirt. "There. Now you can see the line."

She leaned over my shoulder to look down the cue, and her hair fell across my cheek, and that jasmine and coconut and salt came with it, and her voice dropped right into my ear.

"Vai," she murmured. "Shoot."

I missed. She laughed at me, delighted, and let her hand slide off my hip with a drag of fingers.

"My turn," she said.

...

She let me get to the eight, then leaned over the long rail without bothering to line anything up.

"He's not coming back early," she said. "He never does. So, we have—" she checked her phone, put it face-down on the felt—"hours."

"What are the hours for?"

She straightened, and instead of answering, she pulled the tie loose, hung it off one finger, and dropped it on the felt. Then she took the hem of the blouse in both hands and drew it up over her head, slowly, arms crossed, and shook her hair out when it came free.

Only the well-filled bikini top. White, wet-warm from the house, tied at the nape and the ribs. Her stomach was flat and gold, sun-creased at the waistband, with a thin sheen on her skin. The tie lay between us on the green.

"For whatever," she said.

She stepped in and kissed me. Not a shy kiss. She took my lower lip between hers, pulled, held my face there with both hands, and made a low satisfied sound in her throat like she'd waited all evening to do exactly this.

"Now the shorts," she said against my mouth. "Help me."

I undid the button, dragged the zip, and pushed them down her hips. She stepped out, kicked them away, and put on no underwear—not a stitch—and hopped up onto the table herself, the felt dipping, and sat there with her knees together, chin up, looking down at me from six inches higher. Then her thighs were smooth and art in the lamplight, and she was bare, coshining, with shaven, smooth, pale brown against the deep tan, already shining, a neat dark seam splitting it, the lips a dusky pink, drawn in tight.

She hooked her heels on the rail, leaned back on her palms, and opened her legs wide.

"Agora," she said. "Now. Come here."

...

I stepped into the space between her knees. She reached down, took me in her hand, and eyebrows went up.

"Meu Deus," she said, half laughing, and gave me two slow strokes. "Look at this. You are going to make me work, aren't you."

She guided me to her. The head of me pressed flat against that smooth wet seam. She didn't push—just held me there, rubbed me up over the little hood, and backed down. Her mouth went slack.

"Ai," she breathed. "Okay. Okay. Devagar—slow. Slow, slow—I'm not—" A nervous laugh, heels twitching on the rail. "You're thick. Nossa. You're very thick. Give me a second."

She pushed her hips down against me. The first inch went in. Her whole face changed—brow knotting, jaw dropping, air hissing through her teeth.

"Ai, ai, ai—calma—" Her hand flew to my chest and was shoved. "Wait. Wait, wait, wait—" Her voice went up half an octave. "You're too big, Caralho; you're splitting me—no, don't pull out, don't pull out, just—devagar—"

I held still. She panted, looked down at where we met, pushed again, got me halfway, and let out a long, shaking groan, eyes squeezing shut.

"Isso," she managed. "Isso, that's it—keep going, keep going, só mais um pouco—just a little more—ah—ah!"

Tight. Not tight like resistance. Tight like a fist, gripping me the whole way. That smooth-shaven mouth of hers clamped, released, and clamped again with every inch, dragging at me, sucking me deeper in little jumps. Wet enough to slip. Narrow enough to fight.

"Tá grande," she gasped. "Tá muito grande—it's so big, I can feel it in my stomach—" Nails biting into my chest. " Talk to me. Fala comigo—say something, say something dirty, keep me—ah! —keep me out of my head—"

"Look at me. Look at it going in."

She did. She looked down at herself stretched around me and made a strangled sound.

"Olha isso," she whispered. "Olha o que você está fazendo comigo—look what you're doing to me—" Her voice wobbled, cracking between a laugh and a sob. "It's beautiful. É lindo. It's—ai, porra—it's a lot. It's so much. Você é grosso, meu Deus—you're so thick—"

"Take it."

"Eu tô tentando!" she snapped, laughing. Then I pushed the last of it in; the laugh died in her throat, turning into a high, thin, drawn-out moan that went on and on. "Aaaai—mmmh—"

She was full. Flush. I could feel her pulse around me, fluttering, her whole body rigid, stomach drawn in, heels locked on the rail so hard the tendons stood out.

"Não mexe," she panted. "Não mexe ainda—don't move yet—don't—ai, meu Deus—okay. Okay. Tá bom. I'm okay." A shaky breath. She looked up, eyes wet at the corners, absolutely delighted. "You can move. Pode. Slowly. Slowly first. Devagar, amor—"

...

I pulled back an inch and pushed, and she clamped so hard it nearly stopped me.

"Uh!" she grunted. "Ah, isso—that's it—de novo—"

The table took the weight. Every slow thrust rocked her back. The balls clacked, rolled, and dropped into pockets one after another. Neither of us cared. Her hair came forward over her shoulders. The bikini top shifted, one strap sliding off her shoulder. She grabbed the tie off the belt and twisted it in her fist.

"More," she said. "Mais. Faster now. Mais rápido—don't be polite, não seja educado—"

When I gave it to her faster, she started grunting on every impact, loud, unashamed, "uh!—uh!—uh!" then threw her head back and cried out, "Assim! Assim, caralho—like that—oh God, like that, me fode assim—"

She came the first time fast and hard, quicker than I expected. Rigid, heels locked, a sound like a sob, hips shoving into me through it, greedy, riding it out until she went limp, head falling forward against my shoulder.

"Porra," she gasped. "Again. Don't stop. Não para, oh oh—"

The second one built slowly and was mean and took a long time. By the end she was sobbing between breaths, voice thin and high, saying his name, then mine, then neither. When it hit, her legs clamped hard around me, she wailed around the tie in her teeth, "Estou gozando—I'm coming—I'm going so much, I'm going so much," then laughed, wrecked, let the tie fall, and grabbed my shoulder instead.

"Good. Good, good—stay. Don't you pull out. Stay right there."

...

She sat up, pulled me close with both arms around my neck, forehead against mine, eyes black, mouth open, wet against my cheek.

"Enche eu," she said. "Inside. All of it. Enche minha buceta—fill me up—I want to feel it in the morning when he's asleep next to me."

That did it. I drove in, stayed, and ground deep. She felt the change and started shaking.

"Ai, ai, ai—you're close, I feel you, tô sentindo—" Her voice climbed and broke. " Vem, vem, vem—"

I buried it to the hilt and let go. The first pulse went into her. She convulsed against me, a hard full-body jolt, and cried out, "Ai! " The second came, the third, and she understood what she was feeling—the heat of it spreading low, deep—came apart all over again around me. Her third one was the worst, the best: back bowing, head going back, heels clamped at my spine, screaming, "TÁ QUENTE! It's hot—tá quente, meu Deus, tá quente—I feel it, I feel it in my womb, don't move, não sai, não sai—"

Then she lost the Swedish entirely. A flood of Portuguese, half of it not even words—"ai que delícia, ai mãe do céu, que gostoso, enche tudo, enche tudo"—while I pumped into her, pulse after pulse, each one drawing another spasm, that clamped shaven little fist of her milking, pulling, until the last of it was in her. She sagged forward onto my chest, arms loose around my neck, thighs still twitching against my hips.

I stayed inside her. Both of us heaving. The lamp buzzed.

"Não sai ainda," she mumbled into my shoulder, barely audible. "Not yet."

...

Headlights swept the ceiling.

Not a neighbor's. Close. In the driveway. Tyres crunching gravel. The engine is dying.

Outside, a car door slammed shut.

Sofia's head came up off my shoulder, hair sticking to her cheek.

"Merda."

She looked at me—still inside her, still catching my breath, her shorts somewhere on the floor behind her—mouth curving into something half laughing, half pure delight.

"Hej hej," she said.

Will be continued.